


something to talk about

by cowboykillers



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders honestly just wants to have a quiet night, work on his manifesto, and put a little bit of good out into the world where he can. Naturally, this means a half-crazed, blood-soaked stranger wanders into the clinic with a dog, desperate for medical attention. Oh well, you win some, you lose some, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to talk about

Hardly anyone wants the overnight shifts at the clinic, which is understandable. Anders is awful at getting up early and always has been – he’d much rather see six in the morning on the approach than have to rouse himself from sleep to deal with it – and it doesn’t bother him much to work alone. He usually has Lirene until about two in the morning, and once she goes home he listens to music and works on his manifesto when there’s no one to see, so it’s not a bad arrangement. 

It also means he gets to help the really desperate people, the ones who either can’t afford to go to the hospital or won’t, for personal reasons, and he feels good about that, too. It’s a lot easier to augment his medicine with a little, ah, natural talent – magic – when it’s the middle of the night and there are fewer witnesses to the deed. The less people who know he practices, the better, after all, though at this point it’s become something of the worst kept secret in Lowtown.

He’s not overly concerned. The people he helps, in the rare cases that his spirit healing is required to go above and beyond modern medicine, generally aren’t the type to go running to the authorities to have him dragged off for registry. There have been a few close calls, but even then he can’t _wholly_ blame his patients for being desperate enough to take care of themselves and their own that they’re tempted by the reward for turning in an apostate.

In a perfect world, it wouldn’t even be an option. (They’re not _criminals_ , and though the Circles of old had been abolished some time ago, the fact that there remains a cash reward for turning mages in for identification and the database is abhorrent. There’s still change that needs to be wrought in the world, and even if his own rebellion is a small one, it’s a _start_.) 

So the overnight shifts are as much for him as they are for the people he treats, a half-hearted attempt at cutting some of the recklessness out of his mission, and it’s worked well for him so far. All in all, he doesn’t even need to use magic that much, truth be told. Most maladies that make it to his door are easily tended by more traditional means, and while it shouldn’t  **be** a risk to have to take in the first place, he doesn’t stick his neck out for just anyone. He doesn’t judge the patients who shuffle in his doors, not even the ones clearly suffering from symptoms of withdrawal – he simply treats them, all of them, just the same.

That being said, his typical patient is at least generally a _person_. 

When the door bangs open and brings wind and rain in with it, his immediate and most pressing concern is the man with the wild gaze and bundled, whining animal in his arms. There’s blood – well, _everywhere_ – and Anders has no idea how much of it belongs to the dog and how much of it belongs to the man, only that there’s clearly a wound that needs to be addressed somewhere.

He abandons his laptop, rounding the counter even as the man near-to crumples with relief. “Oh, thank the Maker. Help him, _please_.”

“Are you hurt?” Anders asks immediately, thunder booming in dramatic backdrop to their conversation. “Sir, is any of this blood yours?”

“What?” The man lurches, seeming to realize the question even as he asks for clarification, and shakes his head emphatically. “No, it’s all Baron’s. Please, there’s no where else open, you have to do something.”

The man’s panic seems to stem more from concern for his dog than anything else, though without an examination Anders can’t completely confidently say there’s nothing wrong with him. His breathing is a little labored, but then the animal in his arms is no toy breed; his color’s good, eyes wide and beseeching, but overall, he seems lucid.

And terrified for his animal.

“I’m a doctor,” Anders says, as gently as he can manage, even as he’s reaching for the dog, hands questing for hurts. “Not a vet. I’m not sure how much I can do for you, Mr…?”

“You went to medical school,” the man interrupts, talking over the top of Anders. “Surely you can do something.”

“Yes, well, I went to a _different_ school from the one you’re after,” Anders returns, locking eyes with the man again. One beat, two, and Andraste’s _ass_ , he can’t look into this man’s eyes and send him on his merry way with a dying animal in his arms.

Something must show in his face, because light springs into the handsome stranger’s eyes, and he repeats, “Please. I can pay you.”

After another second’s hesitation, he steps back, gesturing. “Bring him back with me.”

—

It occurs to Hawke only after the pinched-faced doctor shuts a door in his face and sends him back to the waiting room that he a) never introduced himself and b) has no idea what the doctor’s name is.

Normally he’s a little more on top of things, a little more polite and put together, but honestly? The day has been a shit-storm from start to finish, and if that dog dies because he couldn’t get it to someone with more working knowledge of how to set him to rights than _oh god stop the bleeding_ , he’s never going to forgive himself. 

Carver won’t ever forgive him either, considering it’s his dog, and they don’t really need one more catastrophic event driving a deeper wedge between them. Things are already strained at best given his brother’s recent departure for the Templar Order, and it’s all they can do to keep the peace for Sunday dinners these days. 

He drops his head into his hands, breathing hard, and focuses on the mud-streaked tiles between his sneakers. He’d managed to drag half the weather in with him when he’d all but kicked the door open, and part of him feels guilty for the mess he’s made, because that’s easier than focusing on the fact that Baron could well be dying one door away despite the best of his intentions. 

“Right,” he says, to no one in particular, and rises from the relative discomfort of the chair. Either Baron’s going to be all right or he won’t, and sitting around beating himself black and blue isn’t going to change the outcome. The very least he can do is make himself useful.

The janitor’s closet is easy enough to find, and despite the fact that he doubts anyone else is going to be venturing into the clinic at – he glances at his watch, notes the time, and winces – four in the morning, he still props a wet floor sign up, just in case. Safe, responsible Hawke, right?

Except when he’s getting jumped and his little brother’s dog almost gets himself killed defending him.

Gripping the mop handle tightly, expression grim, he sets to work.

—

Anders has seen some strange things in his life. It’s practically par for the course, living in Kirkwall, and not even the _nice_ end of Kirkwall – he’s been witness to the irritating, the strange, the worrisome, the absolutely unexplainable. Most of the time, he keeps out of things unless there’s real and pressing danger to someone involved (especially himself, because he’s a doctor but he’s not a hero, not by a long shot) but this isn’t exactly something he can ignore. The strange man covered in blood is mopping up _his_ clinic, after all, which he supposes isn’t the worst thing that an unknown man built like a brick shithouse could be doing at his place of work in the middle of the night, but it is still rather… strange.

He clears his throat, pulling latex gloves free from his hands, and watches in some amusement as the man jumps.

“Maker’s mercy,” he mutters, clutching the mop in front of him as though he can’t decide whether he wants it to be a sword or a shield. “You… startled me.”

“I noticed,” Anders quips, unable to help the flicker of a smile on his face at the other man’s sheepish look. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so intent.”

Tall, dark, and handsome actually looks embarrassed, grip relaxing on the mop. “I thought it was the least I could do, barging in. Is Baron…?”

“Just fine. Resting, at the moment.” Fine thanks to a liberal application of his, ah, less-than-orthodox methods, but he’d weighed the risk versus reward, and decided there was no way he could have the big, dumb animal’s death on his conscience. “You really ought to get him to a vet for a check-up, but I daresay I’ve, um, worked my magic.”

“You are an angel.” It’s said so sincerely that Anders is taken aback for a moment, and then further distracted by the full wattage of the bright, relieved smile beamed at him. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Not my usual patient, but this is a place of healing. I’m glad I could help.” He finds that he even means it, despite the fact that he is most assuredly _not_ a dog person. “You didn’t have to mop, but I’m grateful for that, too.”

Still smiling, though it’s relaxed somewhat from the near manic intensity of moments ago, the man strides over and offers his hand. His shoes squeak on the freshly mopped floor. “Hawke. Garrett, but everyone calls me Hawke.”

“Hawke,” Anders repeats, half his mouth lifting into a crooked smile. “I’m Anders. On the subject of payment…”

Releasing his hand, Hawke reaches for his wallet, and Anders waves it away. “No, I can’t very well charge for treating a dog. I actually really just want to hear the story.” He pauses, gesturing to the seat opposite his desk, and leans in to confide, “It gets very boring when no one is dashing through the door to make desperate demands of me on a moment’s notice, you know. And Baron likely won’t be up for an hour or so.”

Managing not to look half as embarrassed as he maybe ought to, Hawke ducks his head, possibly just to hide his smile. “In that case, make yourself comfortable, Anders. It’s not going to make any sense without context, so let me start from the beginning…” 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me at [antivanfishwife](http://antivanfishwife.tumblr.com) and send me prompts!


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